Last Call: The Dry Agent

I command these words to paper with hand atremble. Found am I, perched ad precarium aboard a barstool in a veritable Elysian Field of fine quaff. For certainly, no concoction of the wrangled Terra could formulate such fine a philter as that which I now quaff:

The Dry Agent.

For you see, dear recipient of my imbibed travelogue, I have discovered the heavens themselves in The Underground.

A small hall in the wall, Rockford’s The Underground is as aptly named as its cocktails are crafted. Distilling their own spirits and hand-crafting every drink with the grandest care, the corridor in which I find myself is perhaps the greatest little secret of this ‘burb. This is not a mill-runnery of hurriedly poured glass-fillings, but a celebration of the fare that is taste and time and alcohol.

While heaving a wide battery of cocktails, the standout for me is the aforementioned Dry Agent. With a leading, yet graciously not overpowering taste of ginger, phantom hints of molasses candy, it seems to pose the query: Is it possible for something to be so flowingly thin as a swift river while thickly coating the palate like a whisper syrup? Also, it tastes like a miracle?

I posit: Yes.

It made me almost sad to drink because I knew it wouldn’t last forever. Every sip a sip closer to the end. Memento mori.

But also,

Memorate vivere!

I believe it was Thomas Carlyle who wrote, “The work an unknown good man has done goes underground, secretly making the ground green and people pleasantly drunk with fine spirits.”

But then again, I have been drinking.

ALL YOU HAVE SOUGHT IS HIDDEN BUT NOT IMPERCEIVABLE, SIMPLY GAZE INTO THE UNDERGROUND, FOR THERE LIES THE CONSTITUTION OF YOUR SOLACE.